


My Dear Puppet }

by Vineverie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Dollification, F/F, Transformation, doll transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vineverie/pseuds/Vineverie
Summary: Tharja creates a hex, and catches a fish she didn't expect.
Relationships: Miriel/Tharja
Kudos: 6





	My Dear Puppet }

On the march, none could be too comfortable in one’s tent. Even on the parade hours after dinner, activity could be stirring on the horizon, or pranksters could be about, stealing knick-knacks or otherwise disturbing those responsible enough to rest. Such was true for a certain dark mage, that prankster archetype, yet not quite as pronounced as her fellow, the one with the white hair. Tharja worked most at night, comfortable in the silent hours, yet rarely was she up to any good with what spells and hexes she created. Toxins for battle, tonics for deadening the body to aches and pains, and nefarious things brewed within her personal tent, positioned just away from the rest, facing outwards in case she felt paranoid, an all too common feeling for her.

Just the same, on the almost polar opposite side of the camp, another magician plied her own crafts, glasses glinting in her candlelight as the moon hung overhead. Such activity might be the reason she wears the spectacles, poring over books and formulae to find tactical efficiencies, checking over inventory once, twice, three times to account for any robberies. Miriel, too, worked on spells in her sparest of times, momentary theories allowing her to pen more books of magic, the threshold of her tent lit up with candles and bells to warn her of any intrusion.

It is on this night, surrounded by a sea of grass, that one of Tharja’s practices would come to light, its strings glinting in the moonlight. A book lay open upon the small table, symbols and arcane text aglow with magic. The dark mage herself, however, stood apart from the tome, surrounded by a salted circle further complicated by thread and tiny limbs ripped from toy dolls. An almost bored expression crossed over her face, whispering to the silent cloth surrounding her.

“Strings that bind this land together, seek and bind one other,” she chanted, fingers trailing over the threads as they came to life, like cobras enchanted by music. “Seek, seek, bind one other to me, body forever mine.”

The limbs burst into flame, the snakelike thread darting from her tent. Tharja closed her eyes, awaiting the fruition of this latest spell, sure of its resolution. Blue moonlight danced along the almost invisible thread as it slithered through the camp, avoiding the quiet, sleeping tents and dying flames of the inner maze. Further and further it went from the dark mage’s tent, coming finally along the eventual target of the spell.

The red-haired mage felt her head growing heavy, the long hours of the night finally taking their due. A heavy sigh escaped her chest, finally laying shut the book of inventories, so many scribbles and notes taken on every member of the legion and their belongings. She still had a bit of wakefulness within her, and time enough to work upon her spell, personal as it was. The uncompleted tome found itself in Miriel’s hands, opening to a half-written page, as confusing to look upon as the workings of magic itself. Idle workings had caused the tome to take on unprecedented complexity, with the mage herself unsure of what the final result would be.

She caressed the thyme-laden pages, drawing her quill and retreating into her mind to continue her search through the language of gods and magic. As she did, an unseen, unknowable intruder found its way into her tent. A singular thread crept along a hex-covered floor, avoiding enchantments that could turn even the most durable beasts to cinders. Miriel felt something curious about her surroundings within her mind, an eerie coldness creeping into her thoughts. Blinking, she tried to pull herself back from the inspiring reverie, the tiniest, dullest of pinpricks attaching to her ankle.

The mage’s head felt heavier, this time not from the expected exhaustion, but of an intrusion in her mind. She felt herself more locked within it than before, looking outward at the body she called home. Miriel’s hands rose before her face, seeing strings emerging from her fingertips, minute threads that ended as quickly as they began, sparkling with a tiny bit of magic. A breath escaped her lungs, and the air felt freezing, yet curious for how it rolled over her skin. Though, perhaps it wasn’t the air, but the skin itself that felt strange.

Struggling to keep conscious, the mage tried to listen for the pulse of life, trying to focus her mind enough to feel every blood cell make its journey through her body. Yet try as she might, she felt no such thing, instead an alien feeling of magic, the veins unidentifiable, the strings of muscle and nerves dreadfully smooth as stone. A slow blink, one that took almost all of her will, filled her vision with black, and when she looked again, her fingers had strangely empty joints, as if the flesh retreated to bone, bone shifted to something alien. She groaned, not of her own volition, as she moved, rising from her seat and starting to walk a slow walk. Her body creaked as it moved, following orders she could not hear.

The dark mage kept her eyes closed, awaiting the return of the threads and her newly acquired plaything. She listened, ears straining, the only sign of her interest in this night, wondering what the sound of its approach might be. Surely it was her desired other, the equal she needed in the dark arts, and yet also one that could satisfy her body’s desires.

Just beyond the darkness of her eyelids, Tharja could hear it come. Creak by slow creak, her puppet came, walking through the night, unseen by the sleeping army. She finally opened her eyes, settling into a cushioned seat, her thumb idly bitten, an indent permanently scarred into it by her teeth. A nervous habit, perhaps, yet one that pleased her, the tiny pins and needles of pain reminding the mind that the flesh lived accordingly. The creaking came close, Tharja seeing the pale fingertips of her other entering first, politely and silently.

Yet what greeted her was a surprise. Rather than the pale and obviously Plegian commander, a crimson haired mage entered, her war-dress replaced by by more comfortable robes, the giveaways of her name, the hat and glasses, all that remained perfectly recognizable. The doll walked closer, eventually kneeling before her new mistress, the smoothest of fingertips trailing over Tharja’s calves submissively.

The biting became somewhat more severe, the dark mage accidentally drawing her own blood with it. Not who she had intended to make hers, yet… she could still enjoy such an exacting companion, even if her mind was not at all there. Trailing her thumb across Miriel’s arm, she beckoned her closer, wreathing her arms around the other mage. The pair shared a kiss, cold and warm intermingling, the now-familiar and calming sound of creaking softly echoing in the tent.

Within the mage’s body, she gazed outwards, confused, and more than somewhat fearful in an immature way, rare for the woman she was. A magician without control, after all, was a dangerous thing, and to be used as a toy in this way made her feel violated in more ways than one. Miriel tried her hardest to regain control, yet with every step she felt threads needling further, not content just to have her body. Resist as she might, she felt threads trailing over her brain, tickling and pleasing her thoughts, pushing her to cease and become enveloped.

She walked by her comrades tents without causing a single stir, her eyes the one window she had to the outside. Miriel gazed, her inner eyes getting heavy and clouded. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone other than the master of this mystery, especially with limbs made from artifice. As she approached, tugged and pulled by the glinting threads, she felt her sharp mind growing dull, the endless counting and checks replaced by a tranquil quiet.

Finally, she found herself within the dark mage’s tent, barely able to look and catalog the candles, incense, and mysterious other things that trapped the shadows within this dark place. A bright red trailed over her arm, her next sight that of her mistress, so close, yet strangely out of reach. A pleasant, all too haunting warmth flowed into her glassy lips, her body settling into Tharja’s lap. The threads tugged at her fingers, wrapping around her mistress with their quiet creaking, her dulled senses filled with a pleased sigh from her mistress.

“Mine.”


End file.
